Expert in Lying
by JulieArchery107
Summary: Mycroft is the master of deception. He can fool anyone, including Sherlock. So why can John see right through him?
1. Chapter 1

"Expert In Lying"

Author: JulieArchery107

Type of story: One-Shot

"Have you brought reinforcements?" Sherlock asks looking back at him with disdain.

"Yes."

He lied.

There was no one but him.

"They will come soon enough."

Normally Sherlock would demand proof, some kind of evidence of such...

**But Mycroft is an expert liar.**

* * *

"Is there a sniper nearby?" Sherlock asks, his back to him.

Mycroft watched the red dot teasingly traveling up his own left leg, just visible enough to let him know it's there.

It stops right between his shoulder blades.

He may not see it, but he knows it's there.

Resting, waiting...

This is a _game_.

"No. I don't believe there is one."

He lied so much that Sherlock couldn't recognize a lie from a truth.

One would think he'd catch up eventually...

**But Mycroft is an expert liar.**

* * *

"I heard a shot, Mycroft did it hit you?" Sherlock asks, his voice filled with what ordinary people would call 'concern'.

But this is Sherlock. He doesn't feel concern, least of all towards _him_.

"No." His voice was steady, his breath even, and body relaxed with no signs of pain and strain. Nothing gave away what had been done, even the coat he wore masked the blood well. The shot was redirected on purpose, he knew. The sniper could have easily gone for the heart, yet he didn't. Curious thing, that.

"It missed me by an inch, Sherlock."

Had it been any other person, this is where their resolve and spine of steel would give way to pain and blood loss...

"Move along, brother-dear, least he gets away."

**But Mycroft is an expert liar.**

* * *

Sherlock looks at him, **really** looks at him, his sharp eyes looking for clues to deduce and analyze.

Usually so keen, so perceptive, so... capable in uncovering the secrets of others.

**But Mycroft is an expert liar.**

He watches his brother's eyes move over the wound, disregarding it several times.

Because he cannot see what Mycroft _refuses_ to _show_.

The elder Holmes wonders if Sherlock knew how _easy_ it was.

For him to _lie_ to his face and _make_ him _believe_ those are _facts_.

He fights the urge to shake his head because _of course_ Sherlock didn't.

He _can't_.

Because Mycroft never _told_ him.

It's what makes him so much _better_ than him.

So much less _human_.

"Very well." Sherlock accepts it and Mycroft feels his soul burn a little more, become a little more condemned.

He watches the detective look away and join John at the forefront of the warehouse.

People say he is the better brother, the one that had their collective humanity...

**But Mycroft is an expert liar.**

* * *

"Mycroft you're looking a bit pail."

The red-haired man blisters.

John.

Mycroft forgot about _John_.

He forgot he doesn't look at the world through the same sharp lenses that he and Sherlock do, that he cannot be fooled by Mycroft's practised tricks against geniuses.

He looks with _simple_ eyes, and sees the simple _truth_.

Who knew simplicity would be Mycroft's undoing.

"I'm alright, Doctor." He assures, thought he moves as far away from the smaller man as possible. "Just… unused to the field work."

John doesn't believe him, it's written clearly on his frowning features.

**But Mycroft is an expert liar.**

So he lets it go.

* * *

John's onto him now.

Watching him, examining him to the best of his ability as Mycroft keeps his distance, _worrying_ about him…

And the fox-haired man hates himself a little _more_ for _each_ of those.

Because he doesn't _deserve_ it, that concern.

He's a _monster_, and they all _knew_ it.

And yet-

Fog creeped up on his on the edge of his vision, and he cursed under his breath.

He's _slipping_.

The wound finally breaking through his defences, making him aware that it's _there_.

Because even _he_ can't ignore the hole in his body forever, even _with_ his special training and clothes soaking and covering up all the blood.

He'll be staggering soon; the wound crippling and him unable to dull it anymore.

He will succumb _eventually_, he _always_ did. The thought making his usually limp hand travel to his side...

"Mycroft?"

His hand freezes.

John is near him all of a sudden, close enough to smell the coppery scent of the blood _oozing_ out of him.

"Are you alright?"

Mycroft's hand falls limply to his side.

He counted his heartbeats as he breathed in and out, _1...2...3...4…_ too fast, he decides. The bleeding will be lethal least he slows it down.

He tries… and _fails_.

"Just a bit… winded." His voice adapting to his excuse, becoming breathless and quiet. Thank God for small mercies. "Nothing to worry about."

"I don't think I believe y-"

The doctor almost said **But-**

"John stop fussing over Fatcroft!" Sherlock's voice called from the front. "He's just terribly out of shape! Come over here and help me look!"

**Mycroft is an expert liar.**

John sputters indignantly but goes to his best friend anyway, all the while pointing an accusing finger at the elder Holmes with a look on his face that says "this isn't over!"

**Mycroft is an expert liar. **

He just wished he wasn't bleeding so much.

* * *

His body gives up on him sooner than he expected, and he has to lean on the nearest wall, hand pressing against the numb wound.

"Mycro-?"

_'Cover must have slipped_.' He thought with a mirthless chuckle.

Unfortunate yet inevitable.

He's not as strong as he used to be.

"Jesus _Christ_!" John is already by his side, why didn't he see him move? "You said you were _fine_!" The poor doctor screamed when he pulled Mycroft's hand back and saw the glove sticky with blood.

The elder Holmes just gave him a bloody smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Lay _down_ you stupid sod!" The blonde was angry, pushing him down. "I need to take a look at your wound!" Mycroft was close to complying but-

The red dot is back.

This time dancing between John's loose fringe, bathing the golden locks in crimson light.

Teasing, almost playful…

_Play the game with me, Mycroft._

He freezes, body tense and ready to spring.

Suddenly it was gone, Mycroft lounged at the doctor.

A shot rings in the air, soon accompanied by the sound of clothes tearing and bones cracking and breaking…

The elder Holmes could feel _pain_, like a hot needle, blossoming from his chest.

His lungs filled with blood at an alarming rate, making him choke as he leaned over the terrified doctor.

John Watson was staring up at him with shock and horror in his blue eyes, lips open in a silent gasp.

Mycroft swallowed the coppery liquid and asked,

"Are you... alright... doctor?" His voice was cracking and hoarse.

It was a wonder he talked at _all_, considering the hot bullet swimming in his lung and the shattered rib scratching and cutting with every breath he took.

"Myc-"

"Sh'lock." He didn't let the good doctor answer. No time, his vision is already going black. He can barely keep his eyes open… "The… sniper. Roof."

But the detective was still, unmoving.

"_Sherlock_!" Mycroft forced a commanding tone to his voice. "Move!"

_'What is __**with**__ you, brother?_'

"You're shot…" the detective whispered, looking at Mycroft as if seeing him for the first time.

"Not _now_, brother-dear." He wondered how he could talk so clearly, so _normally_, with all the sloshing and gurgling sounds his lungs were making.

Wondered how he isn't _drowning_.

Medical knowledge dictates he should be dead two hours ago.

When a bullet sliced its way through his soft liver.

"Get…" He's coughing and, _dear __**God**_, it's nothing but blood and shattered pieces of his rib. The action paints John's jacket red and white, and he feels absolutely _sick_. "The… Hunter... Sh'lock."

But the detective wasn't moving, just... staring at him eyes wide.

"H-rry." Voice barely a whisper as he tried to coax Sherlock into some sort of action, eyes squeezed shut and arms shaking.

The bullet hit the right side of his rib cage, in a spot directly parallel to his heart.

Had it been his left side, he would be dead.

He was lucky, unbelievably so.

"Sherlock go!" John said, sounding far away. He must have crawled out from under Mycroft's protective stance. "I'll take care of your fool of a brother. Go get the sniper."

He couldn't tell if the detective went as asked, his ears were ringing with his rapid heartbeats and the gurgle sound of blood in his collapsing lungs, his eyes screwed shut.

_'This is it._' Mycroft thought, his arms buckling under his weight and making him drop heavily to the ground, which further agitated his wounds. '_I'm not leaving this place alive_.'

He lost the game.

A small red dot appeared in the bloody puddle leaking from the corner of his mouth, shiny and tiny. So much so the elder Holmes thought it was but a hallucination.

It almost looked sad as it bounced back and forth, to his forehead and back to the puddle.

Like a macabre dance performed especially for him.

Fickle indecisive little thing.

"Mycroft!" John suddenly appeared in the puddle, the red dot blinking away upon his arrival. "Mycroft, answer me damn it!"

There will be no mercy for him tonight.

His body was forcefully moved to lay on his back, the doctor's hands pulling at his arms making the red-haired man hiss.

"C'ful." Was all he managed to gasp out between swallows of blood.

"A bit too late for that, don't you think?" John spat out, his voice carrying the sort of bite that was usually reserved for the younger of the brothers. "What were you _thinking_, getting shot like that and not telling anyone?"

Mycroft didn't respond.

There was nothing to say.

The doctor pushed against his chest wound a little harder than necessary, making the red-haired man choke and hiss.

"_Well_? What's _wrong_? Cat got your tongue?" It was clear that John wasn't going to let this remain unexplained, a fact evident by the venom in his voice.

"H'd to." Mycroft grunted out when the pressure increased again. "M'sion."

"_Bullshit_." The doctor spat, angry and distraught. "For once in your life, tell the bloody _truth_."

**Truth**.

Such a _powerful_ word, that.

It is a considered a Godly virtue, mothers tell their children that they must not stray from it, that it will set you free…

But Mycroft _can't_ be set free.

For far too many lives depend on the lies he weaves. Were he to ever reveal the secrets he's been guarding and the actions he has put in motion for the sake of his country, the world would plummet into chaos.

So he has been running from it like a dog with his tail between his legs.

_Tell the truth. _

Such a simple statement.

Yet it had the power to bring the most powerful man in England to his knees.

For it was the one thing he could not _do_.

No matter what.

_Tell the truth._

_**No.**_

"I'm _waiting_, Mycroft." John hissed, growing ever impatient.

"_S'op it_." He managed to growl out before he was overtaken by harsh coughs again.

"It's a _simple_ question, Mycroft." The doctor huffed in annoyance as he tried to take care of both bullet holes at once. "I'm not asking you to reveal our proud nation's classified secrets. I'm asking why you let yourself be shot, _twice_, and didn't think it would be _wise_ to inform _me_, a _doctor_, about it." He sighed. "Why do that? Why let yourself be needlessly hurt?"

"D'snt m'tr." Mycroft coughed.

**Mycroft is an expert liar.**

"It _does_." John insisted. "_Believe_ me, it matters a _lot_. Because, from what you've shown me today, I'm starting to fear for your mental health."

The red haired man swallowed thickly.

"The first shot could have been avoided, couldn't it?" The question came completely out of the blue, making him let out a shocked cough. "I bet you saw the sniper's laser pointer from the moment he pulled it out. You _saw_ it honing in on you, and didn't _move_."

"..." Mycroft said nothing, too worried about the fact that _**by **_**God**_**, this **_**shouldn't**_** be **_**happening**_**.**_

"You knew it was coming and yet... you _still_ let it hit you." The doctor continued somberly. "Why? That I will never know." He admitted, looking at Mycroft sadly. "What I _do_ know is that this… _all_ this," he gestures to the wounds. "is a _very_ bad sign, Mycroft. It tells me that your mind is in a very _very_ dark place right now." He pats him on the shoulder.

**Mycroft is an expert liar.**

"And that you have _no idea_ how to get out of it."

**But John is the one person that he cannot fool. **


	2. Chapter 2

"Let me help you"

Author: JulieArchery107

Type of story: One-Shot

The whole situation shouldn't have surprised John as much as it did.

He's known the older Holmes brother nearly as long as the younger one. He should know what to expect from him.

But he didn't.

He didn't expect him to do what he did in that abandoned warehouse, didn't expect him to be the brother that got shot at and pierced by bullets.

And yet, in hindsight, he should have.

Should have known he wouldn't allow_ anyone_ else to take the hit, especially not him and Sherlock.

_He's_ the _elder brother_, _he's_ the one that makes sacrifices, that makes things _right_.

Ah, but right by _who_?

By Sherlock, by John, by , the list goes on...

But never _himself_.

In Mycroft's mind he's the _only_ acceptable causality.

He can be beat, he can be tortured, he can be broken beyond repair…

As long as those he loves stay safe.

Hell, John was half convinced (now fully after what happened) that the man would lay down his very _life_, if it meant everyone in Sherlock's circle of friends gets to live.

And that mentality… was not something one should have.

Because your first priority should be _you_, and your _own_ happiness.

And Mycroft… Mycroft didn't seem to care about _any_ of that...

"Do you think your brother might hate himself?" John suddenly asked from the kitchen.

"...What?" Sherlock pokes his head through the door.

Well… he might as well ask the big question.

"Does Mycroft have depression?" The doctor placed the plate he was wiping on the counter and looked at his friend. "Like… in your opinion."

The Detective just… stared at him for a long time, before fully stepping into the kitchen.

"Why? What brought this up?"

"Well…" John sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Mostly just his recent actions, though I can't say the thought didn't occur to me beforehand."

Sherlock just stared at him, unblinking, which the doctor came to recognize as him being lost in thought.

"I… don't think he does." The Detective answered thought he didn't sound convinced.

"Yeah you see, that's the problem." John said. "No one _ever_ thinks about whether or not _he_ needs help, because everyone automatically assumes he can take care of himself. He saves _everybody_ but who saves _him_?"

Sherlock frowned.

"Mycroft doesn't _need_ saving, he's the British Government."

"You see, that's _exactly_ what I'm talking about!" The doctor pointed at the detective. "This label makes us forget he's _just as human as the rest of us_."

At that Sherlock just looked at him.

John sighed and rubbed his temples.

"Look, Sherlock, what happened three weeks ago... makes no sense to me. He... could have avoided the sniper, could have notified us... anything!"

"But he didn't." The Detective whispered.

"Preferring to be _shot_ instead!" John threw his hands in the air. "Tell me does this sound normal? Does this sound like something a _rational_ human being would do?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

They both knew it didn't.

"I don't pretend to know what's going on in that head of his," The Doctor said. "But whatever it is, it's _more_ than a bit not good." He then pointed at his best friend.

"And _you_ should do something about it."

Sherlock looks at him alarmed.

"What? Why?"

"Because he's your _brother_ and something is definitely _wrong_ with him." Watson couldn't believe he had to explain this after all this time.

"He wouldn't _listen_ to me." The Detective says with a disgusted frown on his face.

"You're the _only_ one he would listen to!" God! Why didn't he _see_ this?

"I'm telling you, he _wouldn't_." Sherlock was adamant however. "He _never_ does."

"Because you never _try_!" John explodes. "All you do is insult and, and _fight_ him whenever he's trying to talk with you about _anything_!"

He may not have noticed it a few years ago when they first met, but he definitely did _now_.

That he, as well as everyone associated with Sherlock, were unfair to the elder Holmes brother since their view of him was shaped by what the detective told them about him, and _not_ by their own observations.

Observations that could possibly go _against_ classifying him as the archenemy Sherlock makes him up to be, if they spent _any_ amount of time with him and _didn't_ fall for the younger Holmes poisoning the well.

Unfortunately _they_ were all gullible _goldfishes_ that cannot think for themselves, even if contradictory evidence was spitting them right in the face.

Because if Mycroft really _was_ the famed Iceman then he would have let Sherlock _die_ a long time ago, and certainly wouldn't have allowed himself to care enough about him to make _him_ his _most targeted weakness_.

Literally _everyone_, from Irene to Magnussen, _know_ how much he values his brother, and have _used_ that knowledge against him on _so_ many occasions, that John was honestly surprised Mycroft didn't die of a heart attack _four years ago._

"It's _his_ fault our relationship is this way." The Detective said, sounding like the petulant child that he is.

"Sherlock it shouldn't _matter_ whose fault it was! Not when your brother might be low-key _suicidal_!" John was very close to losing his patience right now. "Don't you think your brother's health takes _precedence_ over a petty _squabble_?"

The silence told him more than words ever could.

* * *

"You shouldn't be up yet."

Mycroft scowled.

_'And__** You **__shouldn't __**be**__ here'_ He wants to say.

But doesn't, opting instead for:

"I don't recall ever asking you for your opinion, Doctor Watson." He stated voice flat, as he continued to button up his suit jacket, completely covering up his bandage covered torso.

It's been three weeks since the fateful incident in the warehouse, and Mycroft, sick of laying around and doing nothing for the sake of "recovery", decided enough is enough.

He was going back to work.

"That doesn't make it any less true." The blonde argued from the door.

"What do you _want_ Watson?" The elder Holmes was at wits end, losing his patience a lot quicker than he otherwise would have.

"..." John was quiet for a minute, as if thinking of what to say. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

Mycroft grit his teeth from both annoyance and the pain that managed to slip through despite the various painkillers he was pumped with several minutes ago.

"I have a _duty_ to take care of."

"I understand that." No he bloody didn't. He couldn't even _comprehend_ the sheer _magnitude_ of Mycroft's responsibilities.

There are days when they extend past the kingdom's borders to another one or two, and sometimes, rarely but still too often for his taste, the entire _world_ is thrust upon his aching shoulders. On those days he forgets how to _sleep_, how to _eat_ properly, and only gets through them thanks to Anthea forcing biscuits down his throat.

After such a period she then drugs his tea which makes him sleep for two days straight to prevent him from going to work the next day, something Mycroft was very cross about the first two times it happened ("What if something happened when I was gone?!" "The Government would actually have to pull its weight for once?") but then realized that, without this recovery, he would be hospitalized or otherwise indisposed for much longer, and drank the tea without much of a huff.

He hated those days with a passion of a thousand red suns, and wouldn't wish them on his greatest enemy.

But it's something he _has_ to do. There was _no_ getting around it.

It's is a cross Mycroft must bare alone, even if, deep down, he wished it didn't have to be this way.

But alas, reality does not bow to the whims of even the most powerful of men.

"But there is _another_ duty you're neglecting." Watson's voice brings him back from pondering, and he looks at the soldier.

"Which _is_?"

"The duty to _yourself_." John hisses out.

"There are things that are more important than the needs of _one_ man, Doctor Watson."

"_John_. We've known each other for _years_ now, Hell you took a _bullet_ for me. You're allowed to call me _John_ for Christ's sake."

Mycroft blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sudden outburst.

"_Regardless_." He continues, looking away from the blonde doctor. "_My_ needs can _wait_,

the _rest_ of the world _cannot_."

"When was the last time you thought of _yourself_ for once?" John suddenly asks.

It throws him off guard again, and he blames it on the meds because it's impossible that this happened _two_ times in a _row_.

"Went to the cinema for a movie you wanted to see?" He doesn't get to say anything because the blonde just keeps. On. Going. "Stayed home and read a book? Gone out with a colleague, because we both know you don't have _friends_, for pizza or beer? Found a hobby? Painted something for fun?" He hoped John didn't notice how that one made him _flinch_. "_Anything_ that didn't involve your work?"

Mycroft could lie like he always did when confronted in such a manner.

He _should_ lie.

But he remembered what happened during the incident from three weeks ago.

"...that is none of your business." So he avoids it. Standing up and trying to ignore the pain of stitches pulling at his skin.

"Wait, no-"

"This conversation is _over_." Trying to ignore how he's _running away_.

"...I never took you for a coward."

There it is again.

That strange phenomenon that he, for the love of _everything_ that is _holy_, _cannot_ explain.

The way John could see _right_ past his defenses, and cuts _straight_ to what he's trying to _hide_.

It scared him.

It scared him more than nearly _anything_ else on this planet, and _by God_, _**he has no idea how to deal with it. **_

"I'm not _running_."

First mistake.

He should have ignored John and kept on going.

Yet the childish words came tumbling out anyway.

"That's denial talking and we both know it." He sounds closer now, his voice calm and soft as if he's talking to a wounded animal.

"It remains none of your business."

Good.

Now walk away and don't look back.

_Leave_.

He wants to.

He _really_ does.

But he can't.

His pride won't let him move.

"Why are you doing this?" Mycroft asks, eyes looking at the door before him and avoiding the smaller man. "We were never… _friends_."

"I'm a doctor." John answers and the elder Holmes feels a hand on his arm. "If I see someone hurting, I try to help. It's kind of my job."

"I'm not hurting." Mycroft said, still not looking at Watson. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Says the man who got _shot_ not too long ago." The doctor snorts.

"...given the circumstances, of course." The red haired man quickly amended, his hand automatically moving to his itching wound. "Really Doc-John. I am alright, you need not worry about me."

"Well… here's where you're wrong." This actually made Mycroft look at the doctor.

"Pardon?"

"Because… if _I_ won't worry, who _will_?"

The elder Holmes had no answer for that.

Because why would someone worry about the one person whose job is worrying about everyone else?

"Everyone automatically assumes you can take care of yourself because… well… you're _Mycroft Holmes_, The British Government _personified_. What could _possibly_ hurt _you_?" _He's doing it again_, Mycroft thought as he watched the smaller man wearily. _It's like he sees right through me._ "This title Sherlock bestowed upon you gives you an air of immortality that honestly makes you seem... almost _inhuman_."

Mycroft stayed silent, finally looking away.

"It's so easy, you know, _too_ easy, to pretend like you're a higher power, a force of nature watching over us. Keeping us safe." John smiles sadly. "It's… rather _sobering_, seeing you hurt, watching your blood leak onto the pavement, as if was that of any other man. I think that's what made Sherlock stare at you three weeks ago, you know? The sight of you not being as unbreakable as you make yourself out to be, as you make_ us_ believe you to be."

The elder Holmes had no idea what to say to all this, his seemingly endless supply of tricks and deceptions having finally run dry.

"My stitches hurt." He says after a while, hoping this will somehow make the doctor leave so he can go back to work continue to ignore his problems run rest.

That's a lie.

Those are the only things that _don't_ ache right now.

He doesn't want to delve in to what any of this means.

"That's okay." John says as if he, once again, knew the elder Holmes wasn't being honest with him. "Take your time."

Mycroft sighed wearily, his shoulders slumping just a bit.

He doesn't want to confront them.

The feelings that have been _festering_ ever since Sherlock was born, boiling and sizzling like hot oil that never seems to lessen in its heat, burning and burning and burning.

The same feelings he thought he cleverly hid away in the deepest recesses of his mind, where he doesn't have to remember that they exist.

That, despite his best efforts, he's no less human than the rest of the population.

But... like all things kept hidden too long... they began to bleed their way back into his life.

He doesn't _want_ to confront them.

But... It seems he will be forced to, anyway.

"I was always taught to put others first." He said into the room as if that explained everything, which, if he were to be honest for once in his life, it did in a way.

Everything had to start somewhere.

For as long as he can remember, it was always 'Take _care_ of them, Mycroft', 'Keep them _safe_, Mycroft', 'They're _your_ responsibility, Mycroft', 'You're the _eldest_, Mycroft, they _need_ you to _watch over_ them', and 'I'm sorry Mycroft but I can't help you now, your brother needs me more', 'You're big enough, figure it out on your own', 'You're not a boy anymore, walk it off, Mycroft.'

He was the _eldest_, he was always expected to take care of himself just _fine_.

He wasn't _allowed_ to cry for help, no matter how hard the task was or how sick he got.

He's the Big Brother, the Head of the Family.

He should _act_ like it.

"Yes..." For a second he forgot the doctor was still there with him, so lost was he in the words that made him what he is today. "But this time if you don't take care of you, there won't _be_ a _you_ to take care of others."

"Maybe there _shouldn't_ be." The whisper came out soft-spoken and yet so full of self-loathing. "For all the _good_ it did in the end."

"Don't think like that. _Never_ think like that." John stressed. "Don't ever think any of us would be better off without you, you're the reason we're still alive."

Mycroft let out a humorless laugh.

"_Please_ doctor don't _flatter_ me, it doesn't suit you." He shook his head. "You of all people should know why those words ring hollow."

"Sherlock's enemies are not _your_ fault." John stated. "They come with both his job and terrible character, it's not surprising that some would try to take a stab at him, honestly."

The older Holmes huffed out a breathless chuckle and shook his head.

_Oh if only you __**knew**__, Doctor._ He thought, smiling ruefully.

_**Moriarty grins behind the glass, sharp pointy teeth gleaming white in the light despite his lip being red. **_

_**He's tied to a chair, beaten and bloodied, captured by his greatest enemy. **_

**Mycroft should be in control.**

_**And yet he's still smiling. **_

**But he's not. **

**He's ****not****. **

_**'I have you right where I want you, Mr. Holmes.'**_

_**The die has been cast. **_

_**Mycroft gives in. **_

_**Magnussen smile looks like a particularly ugly sneer from where he was seated on the opposite side of the table. **_

_**He should be paying attention to what was being said, but he's not. **_

_**Instead Magnussen is looking right at Mycroft. **_

_**His eyes shining with an unnatural yellow light that makes him seem like a hungry predator that just spotted his next meal. **_

_**Aiming for something he cannot have, or so Mycroft liked to think. **_

_**The elder Holmes meets those eyes with his own, filled with icy indifference. Cold and calculating, almost challenging in a way. **_

_**'Go ahead.' The blue orbs dared, so sure he was of his genius. 'Try and take me down.' **_

_**Mycroft is a mountain.**_

_**And mountains bow to **__**no**__** man. **_

_**He doesn't expect Magnussen to actually do it.**_

_**Doesn't expect him to be this cunning, this deceptive, this frighteningly **_**manipulative**_**. **_

_**Doesn't expect him to go after **__**Sherlock**__**. **_

_**Mountains do not bow. **_

_**But they sure do crumble. **_

_If only you knew._

"_Regardless_ of who's fault it was," The elder Holmes brother sighed. "They _never_ should have gotten this close."

"You really _are_ trying to become a martyr, aren't you?"

A humorless laugh escaped Mycroft's throat.

"And what if I am?"

"That's not healthy, Mycroft."

"No." He agreed, a small smile gracing his lips. "But better me than someone else."

"You can't mean that."

"_Can't_ I?" Mycroft finally turned to look at the doctor, his blue eyes burning with an inner flame that wasn't there before. "I've spent my whole _life_ trying to protect what's dear to me, but I didn't actually prevent _anything_." He growled, hands curled into fists. "I couldn't stop Moriarty from pulling Sherlock into his sick game, I couldn't catch Magnussen before he got powerful enough to pose a real threat, _despite_ my _best_ efforts, these. Things. _Still_. _Happened_."

John looked at him, eyes wide as if seeing him for the first time.

"_How_ can I hope to protect my _entire nation_ when I can't even stop _one man_ from trying to _kill_ himself?"

It truly was a disturbing sight, seeing the Immortal Iceman melting into a normal man with an impossible load on his back.

Because that's what he was.

A normal man who refused to ask for help.

Refused to look _weak_.

Because _someone_ has to be the rock everyone leans on.

And, in hindsight, John should have realized what the problem was years ago, and it was truly a dent to his observation skills that he only just understood it now.

That behind every _God_ stood a boy who was never told 'it's okay to be weak'.

* * *

AN: Not sure what I'm trying to accomplish with this two-shot. In all honesty, I just want those two to be friends.


End file.
